A Prank Gone Awry
by Tara Farrago
Summary: House's prank may have serious consequences for his friend. timeline: S3 Resignation. Rated T for the s word. R&R PLEASE!


A Prank Gone Awry

("Resignation" alternate scene)

by Tara Farrago

This is my first House fic - critiques are requested so my next one will be better!

This is an alternate take on a scene in the 3rd season episode "Resignation." For anyone who didn't see it, here's the relevant info (no plot spoilers): Wilson has been yawning and House can't figure out why. He crushes three amphetamine tablets and mixes them into a coffee for Wilson as a test. Two absolutely hilarious scenes follow (see them on youtube!) before Wilson figures out what House has done and shows up at his apartment to bitch about it. This is my own idea for how the whole scenario might have worked out. It's written to take the place of the apartment scene in the episode, so it doesn't take away anything, or change anything, it just adds some more stuff – mostly angst. Just for shits and giggles.

Playing Wilson like that had been more enjoyable than it had been in the past. He wasn't sure why – he knew that the reason he enjoyed manipulating people was partly because of the sense of power it gave him, and partly because at heart he was still a mischievous boy looking to push the limits and cause trouble. Wilson, underneath all his charming sensitivity and his calm maturity, was the same the kid as House – his manipulations were more subtle, and more predictable, and he rationalized them with well-meaning intentions, but deep down, in a lot of ways, he was just like House. That's why they got along so well – why they tolerated each other's pranks and manipulations. Each precariously straddled that line House so gleefully and frequently crossed, but they kept each other in balance, and they understood each other.

Of course, Wilson also got off on _overcoming_, either emotional challenges, which was why he actually liked being an oncologist, or bullshit, which was another reason he tolerated House.

Waiting in front of the television for the phone to ring, House still felt the residual impish adrenaline from his coffee prank. Couldn't figure out why, though. Usually by now he was back to even. Maybe it was the imagined image of Wilson bouncing off his office walls on an amphetamine high, which was unqualifiedly hilarious. Or the rage House was sure to incur once Wilson realized what had happened and called him – or, _better!_, showed up at his door.

But five o'clock came and went and Wilson didn't call. Six o'clock came and went, and Wilson didn't show. The prank had been fairly transparent – he ought to have figured it out by now. Unless the amphetamines were affecting his reasoning. 'Wilson can't handle his drugs,' House thought with a smirk, and reached for a bottle of Vicodin.

Finally, at ten after seven, the phone rang. House wiped the satisfied grin from his face and lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

"House." It was Cuddy. Typically, she sounded strained. "You have to come back to the hospital."

"Oh!" he groaned melodramatically. "I missed it, didn't I?"

"...Missed what?" Cuddy asked.

"My patient! The epic heart attack! Okay, it kicked in a few hours later and it probably wasn't _quite_ as epic—"

She cut him off. "No! House – no. Your patient, as far as I know, is fine. It's Wilson."

It was more than strain in her voice... it was worry. The smug smile froze on House's face. "What about Wilson?"

"_Wilson_ is having a heart attack."

His stomach sank, the Vicodin high dissipated. "What?" was all he could think to say.

"He's been asking for you," Cuddy told him.

It took an effort to suppress his panic and get moving. "I'll be right there."

He slammed Cuddy's doors open with such force that they almost bounced back onto him. Cripple or not, he could move when he wanted. Cuddy startled badly, literally jumping out of her seat. "Where is he?" House demanded.

His mind was divided in a civil war. One half, cool and logical, assured him that his trick with the coffee could not possibly have caused Wilson to have a heart attack, if only because he had evaluated that risk and spiked the drink anyway. He would never have done anything to put Wilson in serious danger. Wilson in cardiac arrest – the man was in perfect health; the notion was absurd, entirely implausible.

The other half of his mind, though, had latched onto the most obvious facts of the situation: Wilson was having a heart attack; amphetamines can cause heart attacks; House had done this to him. Normally these two constituent parts of his mind worked in unison to solve the medical mysteries that came across his desk. Now they played havoc with his own heart rate.

His boss gestured to the couch and told him, "Sit down."

Of course that wasn't going to work. House's eyes were wild and he demanded again, "Where is he?"

Cuddy was glaring at him, but there was something else behind her eyes – pity? So when she told him again to sit, he didn't obey but he did stop railing. "I have to talk to you first," she said.

"No, first you have to tell me where Wilson is."

Cuddy sighed and resumed the glare. "I really wish you would sit down."

House eyed her suspiciously. You only insist someone sits when you're giving them bad news. "Why?" he asked.

"So _I_ can sit down, and face you."

He still eyed her strangely, so she came around her desk and sat in the chair facing the couch to prove her point. House grudgingly dropped down across from her and raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Where. Is Wilson?"

Cuddy leaned forward and looked House straight in the eye, intent and serious. "Wilson came in here an hour ago, waving his arms around and ranting incoherently... he was talking so fast I couldn't understand him. It was obvious he was angry about something—"

House fidgeted in his seat, growing impatient. Somewhere in _this_ hospital his friend was being treated for an MI and Cuddy was giving him the run-around.

"—and I gathered he was angry at _you_. Before I could get anything coherent out of him, he had a heart attack and collapsed. We rushed him to the ER for treatment."

"Is that where he is now?" House moved impatiently to get to his feet.

"No. And we're not done yet. He also said something about _amphetamines_," she said, the edge in her voice growing sharp. "Do you have any idea what he was talking about?"

Caught in the headlights. The gnawing doubt about the harmlessness of his prank had followed him all the way back to the hospital. But no, he reminded himself, there's no way he could have caused this. Hypertension, maybe, but not a heart attack, not in Wilson. He would never have done that. "Where's Wilson?" he repeated.

"This is serious, House. You drugged Wilson with amphetamines without his knowledge."

"I didn't. Nice guess though. You want to tell me where he is now? Or should I walk upstairs and ask the receptionist what room he's in?"

Cuddy opened her mouth to talk, shut it, then tried again.

"He's dead," she told him.

House stared. For a full three seconds everything stopped. Wilson had a heart attack. The amphetamines in the coffee. It was a prank, just a prank. And Wilson, his only friend...

A desperate attack of logic took over, and House felt sudden calm reassurance flood through him. He cocked a smile and shook his head at Cuddy. "No he's not."

She gazed at him earnestly. "I'm sorry, House."

House went on smiling, and this time it was his turn to lean forward and look her in the eye. "You didn't _ask_ me if I doped Wilson, you _told_ me, because he told you."

"Yes," Cuddy responded, "while he was going into cardiac arrest on my floor! So you did dope him."

"I didn't say that, I said _you_ said that," he clarified. "You don't look too upset for someone who just watched someone die on their floor."

"He died in the ER, and you think I'm not upset?" she shouted at him indignantly. "You _killed_ your best friend, House – your _only_ friend, and a friend of mine too! How dare you? You think I'm not upset? Right now I'm shocked and I'm angry that _you_ could have done such a thing. I'll mourn for Wilson later, after I've dealt with _you!_"

House was unflappable. "If Wilson was dead, you wouldn't bring me in here and launch an inquisition first."

"Unless I thought you caused his death!" she defended. "Did you?"

"Wilson's not dead, so I guess not," House said confidently, stood and hobbled to the center of the room. "Wilson!" he called. "You can come out now!"

"House..."

"Wilson!" House wandered out into the clinic and began searching the examination rooms. "Come on, Wilson. You're not fooling anyone. Cuddy's not that good a liar." But Wilson wasn't anywhere in the clinic. He walked back to Cuddy's office. "Go ahead and tell him to come out."

Cuddy shook her head, looking at him sadly. "I'm so sorry, House."

Doubt and fear crept back into his mind. Would she carry a joke this far? "No. Come on..."  
Her ranting was over. She was in sympathy mode now. "I know you were close."

Cuddy was a manipulator just like House and Wilson, but she had ideals and ethics. She wouldn't stoop this low. Would she? "I want to see him," he tested.

"I can't let you do that."

"Because he's not dead."

"Because you're complicit in his death," she said, growing angry again. "As soon as they took him up to the ER, I went to his office and tested the coffee. It was positive for amphetamines. The clinic pharmacy record shows you signed out three ten milligram pills this afternoon."

"Oh, God..." The horrible reality of the evening was setting in. House leaned heavily on his cane, staring distantly at the floor. 'What have I done? Did I kill Wilson?' "I want to see his body."

"Why?"

"Because I don't believe you." But this time his disbelief was feigned.

"I can't let you. The police told me I wasn't—"

"Police?"

"Yes!" she sounded exasperated. "You caused a man's death! Your friend! The police are already on their way here. I don't know if I'll be able to help you this time—" He abruptly turned and went for the door. "Where are you going?"

"My office. You can send the cops up there when you're done with them."

In the elevator, House was keenly aware of the passage of time. Each second passed precisely as the last had, each left him equally numb. 'Wilson's not dead,' he told himself, over and over in his head. But of course, if he _knew_ that were true, he wouldn't need to keep repeating it. He was in denial, the first stage of grieving, which meant that deep down he knew Cuddy wasn't lying. Wilson was dead, and he had killed him.

His damned yawning. House couldn't let it go. He'd suspected it might have been a side-effect of antidepressant medication, but he'd drugged Wilson's coffee anyway – knowing that MAO inhibitors can cause hypertension as well, and that the complications of combining them with amphetamines could... How could he possibly have miscalculated...

The elevator doors opened and he trudged down the empty halls toward his office. He was going to be arrested for killing his best friend – and Cuddy was right – his only friend. And he'd rot away in jail knowing that Wilson wasn't alive anymore because House couldn't control his own childish impulses. Loneliness he could handle, but guilt?... He'd never had to face guilt before. And Wilson... what would he do without...

Turning the corner, he passed Cameron on her way to the labs. "What are you doing back?" she asked him.

Normally he would have snapped a witty remark. He didn't feel like playing any more games tonight. "Wilson's dead."

He didn't get the reaction he expected – unbridled shock and sympathy. Instead she looked confused. "What?"

"Wilson. Is. Dead," he told her again. "I dosed his coffee with amphetamines this afternoon, and he had a heart attack in Cuddy's office and he died."

She only looked more confused. He walked on, didn't want to deal with her compassion right now. He just wanted to get to the quiet, dark solitude of his office and sit alone and try to comprehend everything, let reality sink in a little more, then throw back a bottle of Vicodin and go numb for a while. Cameron's voice said to his back, "But I just saw him go into your office."

House paused, sure he'd heard her wrong, or that she was mistaken. And then, no, everything began to make sense again... He turned to her. "What did you say?"

"Wilson," Cameron told him. "I just passed him a minute ago. He was going in your office."

He spun and dashed the last few yards, flung open his office door.

Wilson stood up from the chair behind House's desk. He looked disheveled and angry – as angry as Wilson ever managed to look. Angry, but healthy and alive.

House nearly went crazy. He dropped his cane and advanced on his friend, nearly screaming, "You son of a bitch!"

"Me?!" Wilson retorted, just before House's fist connected with his face. He fell backward, holding his chin and wincing in pain.

"Were you listening in on Cuddy's speakerphone?" House accused. "Is that how you knew to beat it to my office and surprise me? Maybe you could have given _me_ a heart attack – I'm the one with the drug problem, remember? My ticker's probably not in such great shape, like yours evidently is."

Staring up at House standing unsteadily over him, Wilson protested, "_You tried to kill me!_"

"You let me believe you were dead!" House shouted back.

"You put amphetamines in my coffee!"

"_You made me think I killed you!_"

"_A-ha!_ So you admit it!" Wilson cried in a triumphant rage, jumping to his feet. House looked disgusted and turned around to retrieve his cane from the floor. "You put drugs in my coffee!"

Cameron was standing on the other side of the door, staring in at them with bewilderment. "Don't you have anybody's hand to hold?" House shouted at her. She straightened disdainfully and left. "Yes, I drugged your coffee. But only because _you_ didn't want to tell me that you're on antidepressants. And besides that's nothing compared to what you did! You even dragged Cuddy in on your lie! I wonder how you roped her into that one. Did you tell her I'm a big bad addict, that my Vicodin habit's gotten out of control, and I needed to be taught a lesson?"

"No. I told her you're an _ass_ that needed to be brought down a few pegs. She agreed."

"Those amphetamines never would have killed you."

"You don't know my medical history!" he protested and stuttered, "I- I- I- I c- I could've... Heart disease runs in my family, you know – they _could_ have caused an MI."

"You don't have heart disease. You're in perfect health," House retorted. "Except for the being depressed part – your yawning gave you away: it's a symptom of some antidepressants, apparently the ones you're on." Wilson sighed, and, indeed, yawned. "And when did you plan on telling me about that? I'm only your best friend – your best friend who you tried to fake your death for. You don't think a little something like diagnosed depression should have come up in conversation?"

"Oh please," cried Wilson derisively, "you don't care! You're just mad I didn't tell you."

"What do you know?" House grumbled petulantly. "You're on drugs."

"Yeah, I'm on _speed_," Wilson shouted in his face and waved his fingers in a gesture meant to dramatically emphasize his condition, but which just came off as silly. "And whose fault is that?"

"I don't know. Maybe if you'd been honest with me, instead of _lying_ about being on happy pills—"

"I didn't lie!"

"A lie of omission is still a lie. You should have trusted me."

"It was personal, House."

"So personal you couldn't tell your best friend. How's that for appreciation?"

"_Appreciation?_" Wilson balked. Sometimes House angered him almost beyond words. "What should I appreciate you for? The time you dosed me with amphetamines with _no_ regard for my health, or the time you exposed me to the police and put my career in jeopardy so you could keep getting high?"

"You're right," scoffed House. "_I'm_ the horrible one. I'm the one who pretended to be dead for petty revenge."

"No, _you're_ the one who callously exposed his friend to potentially dangerous drug interactions for no reason at all! Even a first year med student knows not to mix MAO inhibitors with amphetamines!" House tried to shout over his voice in protest, "You were fine! I didn't give you nearly enough to induce a reaction," but Wilson paused only momentarily, then ignored him and went on: "You didn't care enough about me to give your little prank a second thought, so don't pretend to be _hurt_ by my trick. As if you could give a damn."

Having the roller coaster of emotions House had experienced over the past hour thrown back in his face induced a fresh adrenaline rush, and he hurried at Wilson again, left hand balled into a fist. But before he got within swinging distance, Wilson kicked his cane out from under him and House stumbled and went down. Flailing, he caught the edge of his desk and stopped his fall just in time to avoid a bad blow to the head, his temple only inches from the sharp corner of the glass desktop.

Seeing the near consequences of their anger abruptly killed all the passion behind their heated argument. They'd each had their moment of catharsis. House knelt motionless on the floor, staring up at Wilson, startled and pained. Wilson sighed and bent down to help him up.

"You're pathetic," House told him.

"For being on antidepressants or for helping you up after you drugged me and attacked me?" asked Wilson, deadpan and disengaged. "Or for believing you really thought of me as a friend all these years?"

Upright again, House looked Wilson in the eye. "You're a real jerk sometimes, too." He held out his palm. "Gimme."

"What? My pills?" said Wilson, surprised. "What for?"

"I thought I'd killed you before. I'm feeling depressed. I need help getting through it."

With House, you could never tell if he was being earnest or if he was blowing smoke (often the case was both). Wilson tried to read him and then shook his head. "You are an ass. Or maybe Foreman's right and you're just evil."

"That's the speed talking. Gimme the pills."

"Why, so you can hide them from me?"

"No, I'm going to prove to you that your little trick worked. Now give."

Wilson sighed again and suppressed a glare. "No. They'd be wasted on you."

Anger boiled to the surface again. House lifted his cane and slammed it against the side of his desk. "You didn't like my prank – fine!" he shouted. "But yours crossed the line!"

Wilson looked surprised by the outburst, and regarded him. "You really believed I was dead?"

House looked away, a rare show of embarrassment. "I misjudged Cuddy," he explained sheepishly. "I thought she would object to a prank like that on morals, or principles, or whatever."

"And you were genuinely concerned? For yourself or for me?"

"What difference does it make?" said House. Wilson staring him down compelled the answer, "For me. You were already dead, so what was there to be concerned about?"

It wasn't the answer he'd been looking for, but Wilson let it go and put on his 'I-know-better-than-you' air, which only he managed to wear without condescension. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before you take me for granted."

"I didn't take you for granted. I took an interest. I wanted to know if you were depressed, which you are."

"You could have just asked."

"You would have lied."

"That's right," Wilson rolled his eyes. "Because everybody lies."

"Especially you," House replied, pointing his cane at him. "And not just about the little things like most people do. You lie about the big things, like dying."

His friend studied him skeptically. "So you're saying you slipped me drugs because you wanted to know if I was depressed?" House's still-sheepish silence answered affirmatively. "Why?" Wilson asked. "So you could throw it in my face and feel better about yourself? Because if I'm screwed up and depressed then I'm just like everyone else, which makes you that much more superior."

"Because you're my friend," House told him, exasperated. "Because friends are supposed to let each other know when something's wrong, and you've been hiding this – for how long? The yawning's recent, which means either you just started, or you recently switched medications—"

"You want to know why I'm depressed, House?" Wilson challenged. "You really want me to talk about it?"

The answer to this was of course 'no.' Wilson was the one who knew how to deal with emotions, not House. So, like every other time Wilson started to get too chatty for his comfort, he would run away – he would wait out their clash in solitude, and when they met again they wouldn't speak of it, until the next time House inevitably pushed his friend too far. This was their relationship. Their inability to find a common plane for discussing the things that mattered most somehow bound them closer together. They had to know each other and get along without words.

He looked at his watch. He decided he'd grown tired of looking at Wilson, and he headed toward the door. "I'm going home to try and sleep. Next time you want to feel valued, ask me for a favor. That's what I do." In the hallway, he swung around and stuck his head back in his office to face Wilson and add, "You might want to wait a week, though. I might not be in a very generous mood for a few days."

Downstairs, he offered Cuddy a similar piece of advice. "Next time you tell me Wilson's dead," he told her, "he better be, or else _you're_ gonna be." She just smiled smugly up at him from behind her desk, and House limped for the door.

The End. Hope you liked it. Please review! And if you hated it, please still review and tell me why!


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